


Stitches

by writinginthesecrettrees



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23208445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writinginthesecrettrees/pseuds/writinginthesecrettrees
Summary: Dad calls Sammy over to the table. He’s got Sam’s sweatpants in one hand and a needle and thread in the other. “Here, Sam. Time you learned how to fix up a rip.”Sam’s clumsy, stabbing himself with the needle and the thread seems to have a mind of its own as it twists itself into knots. His stitches are big and sloppy, the fabric puckered where he sewed too tight, but Dad pats his head, says “pretty good for a first try,” and sends him off to bed.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	Stitches

Sammy’s five when he clambers up onto the old wooden fence at the back of the motel parking lot, and never mind that Daddy said to stay off it. Sam’s bored, the pizza isn’t here yet, Dean’s busy with homework, and Dad’s busy writing in his book that Sam isn’t allowed to see. Both of them yelled at him to turn off the tv.

He balances carefully, arms spread wide as he puts one foot in front of the other, teeters along the rounded plank. He’s hopping over a fence post when his foot slips and he falls, catches his hand-me-down sweatpants on a nail sticking out and the giant rip more than his scraped elbow has fat tears rolling down his cheeks. The pants are ruined, the leg half torn off at the knee, and all Sam can think is that Dad’s gonna be mad that he wrecked his pants so he hides in the bushes as the sun sets.

It feels like hours later when Dad comes looking for him. Sam shrinks back into the bush, but Daddy seems to know right where he is, walks straight to him. Dad stands over the bush and there’s laughter in his voice when he says, “Now where could my little Sammykins be?” 

Sam almost giggles, tears still wet on his face, and he covers his mouth with both hands.

“He’s been out here for sooooo long,” Dad continues, “almost twenty whole minutes. I hope I find him soon, before Dean eats all the pizza.”

Sam can’t stay in the bush after that. Torn pants forgotten, he crawls out, trips over the dragging fabric when he stands up.

Dad frowns. “What happened here?”

Reminded of his accident, Sam hangs his head, scuffs his toe in the dirt, tries to hold back a fresh bout of tears because he’s a big boy, too old to cry. His bottom lip trembles and then Daddy bends down, scoops him up, and that’s too much. Sam bursts into noisy sobs and throws his arms around Dad’s neck. “I… fell… down,” he managed to gasp out.

Sam feels Daddy sigh and a big hand rubs his back. “C’mon, kiddo. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

After pizza, after a bath and a Batman bandaid on Sammy’s elbow, when Sam’s wearing one of Dad’s old teeshirts and Dean’s watching tv, Dad calls Sammy over to the table. He’s got Sam’s sweatpants in one hand and a needle and thread in the other. “Here, Sam. Time you learned how to fix up a rip.”

Sam’s clumsy, stabbing himself with the needle and the thread seems to have a mind of its own as it twists itself into knots. His stitches are big and sloppy, the fabric puckered where he sewed too tight, but Dad pats his head, says “pretty good for a first try,” and sends him off to bed.

In the morning, Sam’s first clumsy attempt at mending is replaced with Dad’s neat, even stitches, and Sam thinks his pants are better than new.

-

Sam’s twelve when the door of the motel slams open, and Dean’s standing there, eyes wide and freckles stark against pale skin.

“Dad’s hurt,” he says. “I need you to help me get him inside.”

Sam doesn’t notice his math book falling to the floor as he shoves back from the table, his chair toppling backwards as he runs to the bathroom for towels to spread on Dad’s bed. He helps Dean pull Dad out of the backseat of the Impala, ignores Dad’s grunt of pain as his leg is jostled when they half-carry, half-drag him inside. Sam runs for the med kit while Dean cuts Dad’s jeans away from his leg. The flesh is torn from knee almost up to his hip, three parallel gashes oozing blood. 

“Whiskey,” Dad grunts through gritted teeth, and Sam brings him the bottle. Dad takes a swig before splashing some over his wounds, then takes another drink. 

Sam’s got the needle threaded with dental floss and sterilized over a lighter, and he hands it to Dean. Dean’s hands shake as he presses the needle against Dad’s skin.

“Stop,” Dad says. They both freeze and look at him. “Sammy, you stitch me up. Dean, get some more towels.”

“But-” Dean starts, as Sam says _“Me?”_

“Sam’s better at sewing, and he’s not shakey from the fight. My leg, my choice,” Dad says firmly, before taking another long drink from his bottle. “Hurry up.”

Dean hands the needle over to Sam, and Sam sets the tip against Dad’s leg. His hands are steady, and it doesn’t seem much different than when he’s sewn patches onto his pants. Dad nods at him, then lays back, stares up at the ceiling, doesn’t even twitch when Sam pushes the needle in.

He works quickly and carefully, and when he’s done Dad is sweating and there are three even rows of stitches running up Dad’s thigh.

“Don’t know how you managed that,” Dean says, taking the bottle from Dad’s hand and splashing a bit more whiskey over the wounds. Sam just shrugs, not entirely sure himself, and they get to work packing up the room.

-

Sam’s twenty-one when Brady convinces him to come out for a night on the town, then picks a fight at the bar, and he gets slashed across the ribs with a broken bottle trying to get his friend out of the mess. He’s been feeling done with Brady’s issues for a while now, and this… this is just the final nail in the coffin of their friendship.

Jess half wakes when he gets home, looks at him and wakes up fully. “Oh my God, Sam, we have to get you to a hospital!”

“Nah,” Sam says. He’s already got his supplies laid out on their kitchen table - 70% isopropyl alcohol, sterile gauze and bandages, and his old sewing kit, the needle already threaded and soaking in a small cup of alcohol. “Won’t take more’n five. ‘S not the first time.” If he was a bit more sober, he might have noticed the horror on her face.

He’s wrong - it takes eight. Sam barely feels the needle as he pushes it through his flesh, pulls the sides of the cut together, ties each stitch off with tiny knots, just the way Dad taught him. Jess is white and trembling when he finishes, insists on wiping it down and bandaging it for him and Sam gives her a sloppy smile. “You’re the best,” he says.

She shakes her head. “If there’s even a hint of infection, I don’t care how much you hate hospitals.”

-

Sam’s twenty-five when hellhounds rip Dean to pieces right in front of his eyes, leaving him with a torn-up corpse where his soul used to be. He can barely see through the tears as he threads a needle, sterilizes it with a lighter, and sets to work piecing his brother’s body back together.

He works through the night, ignores Bobby’s attempts to get him to stop, keeps sewing as the sun rises and Dean cools to room temperature. Tiny stitches inside, holding arteries together and organs in place, tiny stitches outside, patchwork skin covering the muscle and bone that used to be Dean.

When it’s done each stitch is set carefully and exactly, the way Dad taught him twenty years ago.


End file.
